Artist in practice. Collage - writing- colour
Allow Me To Gather You, And Your Name After Mahmoud Darwish Allow me to know you, in my heart As you know your land, your home, your love Allow me to taste the joy of olives and watermelons grown with the care of a thousand ancestors Allow me to feel
Maybe I need a free write before I try to turn my mind to the corporate bingo of the 21st century Maybe I need AI, which I thoroughly despise and would not wish to contribute to the eco racism of Maybe I need to jump in the sea to cleanse
Move slowly through the swamps of Empire Take time Resist their urgency Pay attention Look up at the galaxy Draw at the park, the gallery, the cafe Look down at the roots Pocket a leaf A feather from a parakeet Who lost her way, arrived in Southall To sing to
(transitive) To bring out of a state of stimulation I live in a noisy city. I live in a noisy home, with a noisy building site next door, for however long that takes. We live in times of over-stimulation. Our senses are deliberately engineered with too-much-input-at-
Recipe to recover from burn out, in this version of Alexia: * no writing, unless light noodling or processing * half working days * listing the contributing factors, seeing the tangible demands * freestyle embroidery * gentle social time * sleep without alarms * magazine reading in parks, sprawled under a tree * nude whenever possible * safe foods,
I bought this neon acrylic necklace two nights ago at a community cabaret for Trans Pride. That day I had been rudely ejected from a local communal garden space because people hate free women sitting peacefully, drawing and sleeping. We are the scourge of the universe, clearly. Another line to
This week I learned I have been awarded a Develop Your Creative Practice grant by the Arts Council of England. Somewhere deep inside resistance rumbled, talking to me about the harms of institutional power in the late stage capitalist freakshow and the falsehoods of our creative juices and desires being
A long time ago, I was recently D.I.V.O.R.C.E.D. and adrift. Bounced out of the cis-het time loops against my will, no longer with a home that the system pretended was my own, no partner, no cat, no bloody idea what came next.
Written in a heatwaved Thursday at the queer writing group I co-host. Grateful for these spaces of space, amongst the insanity of the city. A nod to Brum Butch Bar’s recent picnic and the pirple glasses of a good friend ASH. One line pinched from Kamil @kamilpoet as
Spiral Time Is Crip Time Is Queer Time Is Black Time Is Neuro’d Time Is Wild Time + Lost Time How do the people who have to survive capitalist time - but truly dwell in these times - make life work? I only can because it’s just me, my neurodivergences and
make me so joyful, even more so in this exhausting world. So many films are released in one month; I want to see them all and so I don’t get to a single screening. The cost of a taxi there and back, plus ticket plus snack is impossible anyway.
A new phrase to me, as is the idea of fragmentation as crip literature - thanks Char of The Remote Body for tonight’s juicy seminar. I wrote this a few days ago and feels right for blog post #2: Collage as meditation, glue as slime